


Bits 'n Bites

by technicolorCarbon



Category: Homestuck, Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, MS Paint Adventures, Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: (and kick ass b/c godtier powers), AU, Aftermath, Angels, Angst, Apples, Canon-Typical Violence, Gambling, Gaming, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Las Vegas, Multi, Post-Game, SBURB, Spoilers up to and including SPN Season 09, Spoilers up to the Gigapause, Team Free Will plays SBURB, The Kids go to Vegas, Weechesters, godtier hunters, spoilers if you've not caught up with both, there's a crossover somewhere here, theres a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2017-12-22 23:12:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 8,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/919146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolorCarbon/pseuds/technicolorCarbon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little tidbits and chunks of fic i start with the intention of completing, but haven't gotten around to. yet.</p><p>Includes Supernatural, Homestuck, and a buncha crossovers, as much as I dislike them in fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homestuck

No one knows who the young blue-eyed man at the Roulette table is, but nearly every eye in the room is on him. He's been there for two hours, and has only lost twice. 

His luck is incredible, one says. Another decides he must be cheating, and there are yet more whispers through the crowd.

However he's doing it, he's cleaning up. His winnings total somewhere in the quadruple digits, and the other casino-goers are only lucky they hadn't bet more.

He simply lets his lips curve a little, sending modest gasps through the single women ( _isn't he scrumptious?_ ), and lays three 1,000 value chips down on 31. The blonde woman at his arm excuses herself with a soft murmur in his ear, and he places a chaste kiss on her cheek as she steps through the crowd.

If anyone notices the slight breeze before the ball lands on the 31, they don't think anything of it.

\--

Shrewd purple eyes have no place in the real world, yet there they are, scanning a Keno card, stopping periodically where deft fingers mark an 'S' over a number. There aren't many players at a game of such chance, but that doesn't stop her, choosing her 20 numbers and setting the card, facedown, in front of the caller.

Her expression reveals nothing as the balls are pulled, then read aloud, and when the verifier finally falls silent, numbers lighting up the electronic board, she simply waits to collect her earnings, just another face in the slow trickle of other winners.

The caller has never seen someone get all 20 numbers correct in his life, and he says as much in amazement to his coworker, who's already been politely turned down for a date from the blonde.

She offers a slight smile and piles her chips together, slotting them into a small carrying case by her side. She's asked if she'd like to play another game, if she'd like a drink, maybe some company for the night, and a tall, dark-haired girl turns up just as they begin to move from playfully aggressive to serious.

They back off when one kisses the other, and watch in silence as they cash in and leave.

Girl's damn lucky, someone murmurs after them.

\--

It's not an official game, but there's a rather heated exchange going on by the bar when the Roulette champion excuses himself for a drink. He joins his shaded companion with a polite nod, and the disagreement lessens mildly with the new addition.

They're betting on the outcome of the games, and the blonde has won twelve of fifteen bets.

It's almost like he can see the outcome, a woman whispers to her friend, none too quietly, and sharp blue eyes silence her the second their gazes meet.

He's timely in his departure if nothing else, and collects the money the other gamblers owe him with a charming grin and a patronizing _tsk_.

\--

The players at the Craps table realize they underestimated the woman in the shimmering dress at the same time that she lets the dice go. They land boxcars, and the stickman calls the triple with a mild expression.

She tosses her hair cockily and winks, scooping up her impressive pile of chips, and the blue-eyed man who takes her elbow returns the grin with an easy smile. She knows it's time to go, and blows the shooter a flirtatious kiss as she's spirited away.

Gravity doesn't bring her down, no sir.

\--

They've spent god knows how many hours in the Casino, losing strategically and winning more, and the four of them take to the back of their limousine with a nearly ethereal air, silently enjoying the other's company. They work well together, have since the world ended, and nights out like this, no matter how common, never lose their excitement.

They'd feel bad about cheating people out of their money, but they're not really cheating anyways.

Besides. They're just constructs.


	2. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wincestiel, complete with baby Sam and teenage Dean and Cas. Awkward preteen boys with awkward crushes doing things they know they really shouldn't be doing. And by awkward preteen boys, we really mean just Sammy.

He's not stupid. He knows what Dean and Cas are doing up in his brother's room, what they do every time Dean sends him on one of those useless errands.

He just doesn't know why he cares.

Why the thought of Castiel, pinned and panting under his brother, makes his stomach twist.

Why the same situation reversed makes him ache.

Every time he finds himself in his room, head tipped back against the wall, hand working furiously in his pants, he comes with a muffled groan of shame.

...He does that a _lot_.

He knows the way they sound, by now; Dean's sensual purr, the way it progresses into a barely-contained stream of curses as he gets closer, the little gasping moans each thrust drives from Castiel's lips. He knows that his brother hardly ever agrees to bottom for his boyfriend-- and when he does, Sam comes so hard he sees stars, because they both fall to pieces. He knows the signals they give when one of them wants sex, that Cas only says 'assbutt' ( _because nobody says that normally_ ) when he wants to top, that Dean is so into his lover that he doesn't notice Sam sneaking back in from friend's houses, that he doesn't notice Sam doesn't actually have a friend whose house he can go to. (And he knows that Dean only sends him out so he can get it in.)

He's 9 when their Dad dies and leaves them with a gambling debt and an uncle they've never heard of, and it's Dean who raises him when Uncle Bobby gets into a car accident and slips into a coma.

It's not life for a normal kid, he finally decides, but he doesn't mind. Why should he, when he's already so far from normal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't ship Destiel or Wincest, not really, but this ship... sighs dramatically why
> 
> \---  
> i don't actually know when those long-awaited crossovers are coming gomen
> 
> i'm certainly working on them


	3. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Implied rape/non-con, not graphic in the slightest. AU.
> 
> Baby Sam, teenage Dean, and asshole hunting pals.

Dean doesn't get to bed until late that night, but Sammy's still up anyways, flicking dad's lighter on and off repeatedly.

"It's two in the morning," he says by way of greeting, but his baby brother doesn't even stir. "Sam. You should be asleep."

Nothing.

"Hey," he tries again, stepping closer and touching Sam's shoulder. "What's wrong?"

He doesn't see the tears until they're making silver tracks down his cheeks, and he pulls the boy closer and settles against the pillows.

Sam wraps himself in Dean's arms and cries, and not a single word is spoken all night.

 

\----

 

He wakes Sam from nightmares that have him thrashing and panting in his sleep, and brushes a gentle thumb over bags under the poor kid's eyes when he's awake. He watches him limp and doesn't question him past the initial 'fuck _off_ , Dean,' because Sammy never swears, and if he feels like he needs to now, it's gotta be serious.

By the same right, he should be more concerned, but he figures Sam'll tell him when he needs help.

Even dad notices it, despite his preoccupation with hunting and hunting friends, to the point that he actually threatens Sam with an ass-kicking if he doesn't smarten up.

John's friends come over more and more, and Dean sees Sam out of his room less and less.

Until he finally _does_ see Sammy-- and this time, he sees far too much of him.

 

\----

 

Dean recognizes Beau as one of dad's friends the second he sees him, be he doesn't catch sight of Sam underneath him until a knife has already entered the equation.

"Sit down, Dean," he orders, and Sam's eyes close in a way that makes Dean think he's wishing for death.

The knife at his baby brother's throat is what makes him obey, though.

"Sammy," the hunter murmurs, and it nearly makes Dean sick. "You already know the rules, don't you?"

He nods silently, and Dean can make out an ugly handprint across his cheek.

"Good boy. Now, Dean-o, listen close, because I don't like to repeat myself."

He waits until he's certain Dean is listening, then lowers the blade infinitesimally. "If either of you boys let this slip to Daddy, I might be a dead man, but I won't hesitate to cut this pretty little neck-" he jerks the knife, and a ruler-straight line of scarlet wells up, "-right through before I go."

He understands.

Even so, he looks away when the bedsprings start creaking again.


	4. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S07E08: Season Seven, Time for a Wedding!
> 
> You didn't honestly think that she'd pass up Sam tied to her bed like that, did you? Becky's a good person, really.
> 
> But she has needs, too.
> 
> -
> 
> Mild non-con, struggles with the definition of rape and the role of gender in such a situation.

_You're better than this_ , he remembers saying, and then he forgets that 'this' has already happened, he forgets that he's in a shitty motel with Dean, that he's sleeping, that the sky is blue and the earth is round and 2+2=4 because Becky is sliding onto his traitorously hard dick with a slow smile and her eyes flash black-

"That's sweet, Sam. But I really don't think so."

She lunges for his throat with fangs of ice, and he wakes with an anti-climactic gasp and jerk.

 _Do not want_ used to be a joke, an amusing meme, but he fails to see the humor anymore; not when he thinks he'll kill the next person who says it.

 

\--

 

"What, you're saying she _raped you_?"

Sam flinches at the disbelief in his brother's voice and shakes his head quickly. He never said no, and besides; Becky _loved_ him. She wasn't doing it to hurt him, in fact, she was doing it so he would love her in return.

Rape; _verb_ , of a man: to force someone to have sexual intercourse with _him_ against their will.

Rapist; _noun_ , a _man_ who commits rape.

( _you didn't_ want _it, it was against your will-_ )

He scoffs. "Of course she didn't."

Dean shrugs and sips his beer, relaxing a tad. "Everyone knows only chicks get raped anyways. You're a little bitch, sure, but there's definitely a set of balls _somewhere_ on there."

Even the dictionary says so ( _archaic, patriarchal societal definitions-_ ); Dean has settled the matter.

( _when have those ever applied to you?_ )

He needs to get over himself, is all.

(Step one is the shower, to scrub the _filth_ off him. There's a dirt in his pores that he can almost smell.)


	5. Homosuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name is John Egbert, and your smile is watery at best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SOMEONE] demanded some more hamsteaks, and i felt like mildly happy stuff before watching supernatural tonight, so i obliged.

There are fifteen people in the room. Seven girls, six boys, and three adults. One adult woman, and two men, one of whom just so happens to be your foster father.

Fifteen is a bad number, you think as you wring your hands in the hall.

Jaime (he asked you to call him dad but you'll only ever have one Dad and he died) beckons you closer, and you shake your head. He can't make you. You want to go home and curl up under your blanket. Maybe cuddle your stuffed rabbit. And listen to Ghostbusters in the background. Your anxiety is making it hard to breathe, you notice faintly, and your glasses are starting to fog up with unshed tears. Or maybe it's just because you're hyperventilating. It's still hard to breathe, and you think your chest hurts. Or maybe it's a heart attack instead.

You've decided that your heart isn't beating at all when a blonde boy appears by your side, and the sudden touch to your shoulder sparks the descent of tears. You dissolve into snot and saline solution, salt dripping into your mouth, knees wobbling pathetically as you wail your distress. Jaime looks like he doesn't know what to do, the other man stands silently in the corner, and the nurse is trying to control the rest of the kids.

The blonde boy follows you to the ground when your knees give out, and pats your leg. He's hushing you in an odd, lisping sort of way, and his too-big sunglasses have slid down his nose to reveal pinkish eyes with white-blonde eyelashes.

Your wails die down slowly once you catch sight of his eyes. They're pretty, you think, and you'd tell him so if you could.

He offers you his sleeve to wipe your nose on, and you sniff pathetically, shaking your head. It would be rude.

He cleans your glasses for you anyways, and pretends he isn't watching as you slowly clean yourself up.

Casey still sounds like an excellent option, but this boy is handing you back your glasses and grabbing your hand, and you stand up with him, eyes glued to his feet. He's wearing spiderman shoes and Avenger socks. Maybe he won't be as bad as you'd expected. Maybe he'll like Ghostbusters, or Nic Cage. Maybe he'll be from another country, too, or maybe he won't make fun of you for not being able to talk like normal kids.

He says something soft to a tall man who looks like his mirror image, but maybe with more color, and leads you to a chair by the door, still holding your hand. The man follows and ruffles his hair affectionately, murmuring something about being proud, and Jaime waves from the doorway.

Maybe you can stay with the boy if Jaime doesn't come back for you. Maybe Jaime will come back, and you'll go home with him.

Maybe you can do this after all.


	6. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop _looking_ at me, and tell me what's wrong already!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by [Don't Lie](http://archiveofourown.org/works/54935), by ninhursag.
> 
> ps, [this](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=k1uUIJPD0Nk) is really good writing music. really, anything by C2C is.

He wakes up with a headache that could probably drop Lucifer, and realizes the Sahara has taken up residence inside his mouth.

Dean is already up and about, and he rolls over with a wordless groan, staggering upright with herculean effort.

"Morning, sleeping beauty. No offense, but I hope you feel like _hell_."

He doesn't grace Dean with an answer until he's downed what feels like half the water in the pipes, and even then, he only manages to shoot him a dirty look.

He softens, and hands Sam a cup of motel coffee, nodding towards the bathroom. "Go shower. I think you puked for a straight hour last night."

He thinks he can manage that. If only to clear his head, he'll fog up the bathroom. After he gets out, he can pursue an explanation.

No wonder he never drinks.

\--

Sam runs a hand through still-damp hair, and Dean tries not to stare, burying his gaze in the news article on the laptop screen instead. It hasn't escaped his notice that Sam's made no effort to pursue the events of last night, and he can't help but wonder if his brother's forgotten.

His suspicions are confirmed when Sam takes a deep breath, then speaks for the first time all morning.

"So, uh... What exactly happened after we got back here? Last night, I mean."

He pretends he didn't hear the question, squinting at the computer screen. "Huh," he mumbles under his breath, and he knows he's pushing it, but god, he doesn't want to have this conversation. "Wonder what's goin' on there?"

Sam sighs in mild irritation. "Dean, come on. What happened?"

His eyes don't seem to want to settle on his little brother, and he looks just about anywhere else possible. He feels like Sam in drama class- _don't look at the camera_ , they said. _It's easy_ , they said.

"Dean."

Clearly Sam isn't in any sort of a mood to take shit this morning. Wicked hangovers tend to do that to you, he's noticed. Finally, Dean wets his lips and answers him. "We had a fight."

For a moment, maybe two, he's almost convinced Sam's going to leave it at that. But then, it's never that easy, is it?

"What about? Was it the case?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, not really; just blunders straight on with the blind apologies.

"Man, look, I'm sorry- I was drunk, I didn't know what I was saying, I was just frustrated, is all-"

"That's bull, and you know it." It slips out before he's aware of it, and he's on his feet before he even breathes again, slinging his button down over his shoulder and stepping into his shoes. Sam stands, starts to go after him, but he holds up a hand and bites his lip for pause. "Forget it. I'm going for a drive, I'll be back in an hour."

Sam doesn't get a chance to respond, and the image of his little brother, lost and hungover in the doorway of the motel, burns the back of his throat with tears.

He needs a drink.

\--

Dean's actually back an hour later, something he's not proud to say he hadn't expected, and he comes bearing gifts.

"Brought you a shake-type... thing. Booster juice, you know, that place. Your healthy drink shit."

He takes the drink unthinkingly, but when he sips it and finds his favorite smoothie from the chain, his brow furrows. "You got my order right," he says suspiciously. Dean makes a point of _never_ getting his order right, on pain of death. He always makes it Sam's job to pick up the food, mostly because he's always too tired after a hunt. He only ever gets the right thing when something's wrong.

He snorts at the idea that something should only go right when everything's wrong, and chalks another stripe up on the wall of family weird.

Dean doesn't look at him, pawing through his duffel instead, straw clenched between his teeth. "Sho? Cah' I do shuhin' 'ie f' m' b'vr sha'ies?"

Translation: _Something's wrong, so I decided to coddle you._

"Dean, when are you ever 'nice'?"

"Nice is for pussies," he agrees, removing the straw from his mouth and dropping his pocketknife on the bed. Apparently the fumble had been for the blade sharpener. "You're wearing off on me, little brother."

He goes to snap back a retort, something witty and quick and just as falsely hurtful, but Dean cuts him off again instead.

"Sorry. Didn't mean that. Just felt like getting a drink, and I remembered this time."

...Okay, now he's actually worried. "Dean, is something going on?"

He jerks, startled, and shakes his head quickly. "Nothing. Why?"

"Bull _shit_ ," he snaps, suddenly frustrated beyond belief with the weird behavior. To be fair, he knows it's just the hangover, Dean's hardly been acting very strange at all- but then again, despite all appearances, Sam isn't very patient. "You've been weird since I got up this morning. What _happened_ last night, dammit? And don't tell me it was just a fight, you never tiptoe around like this after a fight."

Dean appears taken aback, and he feels a pang of regret for being so sharp, but it doesn't last long. He's too worked up for that.

"I swear to god if you don't tell me, I'll-"

He falters suddenly, fists clenching. He can't do anything, and they both know it. Maybe he'll be a little butthurt, but that's about it. It's Dean who does the hitting when he's frustrated, not Sam. He goes for a run, buries himself in a book, or a case. He'll never really be the physical one of the pair.

They face off for long minutes, calm stare meeting angry glare, and he's about ready to give up and resign himself to madness when Dean shrugs. It's giving in, but he's not doing it easily, and like hell he's happy about it.

"Fine. But if you get upset- don't look at me like that, you little shit, this is your idea, I wouldn't even tell you if it was up to me- don't you fucking try to shove it off. We're _talking_ about this one."

"What happened to no chick flick moments?"

Dean's gaze turns cool, and he turns away from Sam, scowl working it's way onto his face. "You got pissed about the damn case. Worked up over the stupid trap."

Sam takes the scowl from him, like a baton in a race, and he's gonna need Jim Carey to stretch his face back into a smile after that one. "You could have died, you asshole. Don't pull that 'I don't care' card now."

"I'm _not_ ," he spits, whirling on his brother and clenching his fists by his sides. He needs time to process, is what he needs. You don't work through heavy shit like the revelation Sammy had dropped last night in your sleep, that's for sure, but he'd failed to go for a drive that morning when he had the chance. The hour on the road hadn't done anything for him. Now it's just him, his temper, and Sam. "I'm telling you what happened, damnit, and you said the same thing last night!"

Sam lurches forward, unsteady, mouth twisted viciously, and he's going to jab at Dean again, but Dean holds up a hand- well, he meant to, but it's a warning fist, and Sam takes a breath to cool himself down before he gets suckerpunched.

"You _kissed me_ , you son of a bitch. What's a little demonstration incest, was it?"

Well, that went over like a ton of bricks. Sam goes for the bathroom, just like the night before, and Dean follows this time. He needs to get it off his chest, needs to lash out and relieve tension before he explodes and really does some damage. Sam's puking into the toilet bowl when he continues, and he speaks over the sounds like it's not happening.

"You kissed me, then told me about it when you were a kid. Someone, some guy, some sick bastard, taught you. How to take it, how to kiss, and you never fucking told me. You- you're unbelievable, you know that?"

Sam raises a wary gaze, wipes his mouth, spits bile and saliva into the toilet, and Dean pins him to the tile with a heated glare.

"What the hell am I supposed to do, Sammy? You dropped something like that, nearly chased me the hell away-"

A disbelieving sound, and anger flares in his gut again, sharp and bright and white-hot like a poker.

"Yeah. Pinned me to the bed. Just like Dad on a bad day, right?" He wants to kick him then, wants to punch and hit and scratch and scrap with his brother like a hormonal 16-year-old, but Sam's hungover and he's crying and it's the lowest they've been in a long, long time.

"I didn't mean to," Sam whispers, and he's so opposite last night, so obviously not contained or controlled or blank, so devastated- he's _broken_ , and so far, even through hell, Dean had been convinced it wouldn't happen. Not to Sam.

Turns out all it took was a few harsh words from brother to brother and all that disappears.

"You weren't supposed to find out," he says, soft and tentative, and Dean joins him on the cool tile floor, resting just his forehead against his brother's leg. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

He gets a cramp in his back and wants to shift, but he figures he deserves at least that. He's an asshole. They're both assholes.

"This is so fucked up," he whispers, just a hoarse as Sam, maybe more because his tears are gathering in a silent puddle under his head, and Sam leans over the toilet to puke away his hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [i would apologize for writing so much spn, but i'm not sorry at all. it's my current obsession, guize.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=tvY7Nw1i6Kw)


	7. Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> homolust. kind of like wanderlust, but with more dick.

John's sprawled on the couch, arm tossed carelessly over his forehead, groaning like he's been mortally wounded. "Dave, it's so _hot_ out, jesus! How do you _live_ like this?"

Dave shoots him a cool glare from his computer seat, spinning idly. "It's hardly even broke 107, quit bein' a li'l bitch. Bro'll be back in a couple hours, and then we can go out somewhere with A/C."

John doesn't dignify his best friend's cool head ( _dave would bust a rib at the irony_ ) with an answer, instead tensing his stomach to hold himself a few inches off the couch as he tugs his t-shirt off over his head. " _You're_ the little bitch, bitch," he gripes, flinging the offending material Striderbound.

If it was any cooler, it might have sparked an no holds-barred pillow-couch cushion-clothing-smuppet-soft materials war, complete with puppet casualties and expensive property damage. But today's Monday, day one of what promises to be a parching week, and. It's a _Monday_.

Dave stares from beneath crooked shades and a sweaty shirt instead, one eyebrow raised in calm disbelief. "Did you seriously just throw your disgusting ghostbusters ripoff shirt at me?"

John sticks his tongue out and hides under his forearm again, and there's a thin sheen of sweat over his torso already. "I feel like a fat man on vacation in Africa."

"Try _hell_ ," Dave suggests, cracking a tepid can of coke and crossing his arms over the back of the chair. "You sure 's shit look better'n one, though."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Of course he instantly assumes an insult. What a dick. "Fat man you ain't, dude."

John peers from behind his arm, one blue eye landing on the blonde with a glint he sincerely hopes (for the benefit of maintaining his neutral temperature _and_ for the sake of preserving his ass if any of Bro's shit gets in the crossfire) isn't _too_ mischevious. "So you think...?"

"What I think," he drawls lightly, tracing a fingertip over what would have been condensation on a cooler day, "izzat you need to get a better hobby than fishing for compliments or hittin' up the gym."

John sits up, momentarily distracted. "But it shows?"

"Eager bucktooth li'l beaver," he comments, and it's only now that he pulls the shirt off of his head. "Course it does. How many sixteen-year-old with sixpacks you know who don't go to the gym p regularly?"

If Dave notices the fistpump John allows himself, he pretends not to notice. Mostly.

"Awesome!"

"You're so lame, it hurts. Surprised you're not in a wheelchair. Tav knows a place you can get a good discount, you want-?"

John occupies himself by playing with Dave's phone, (fucker's too cheap to buy himself one, _still_ ) and Dave just pretends he's trying to sleep- the lie is preferable to the truth, because no way in hell is he admitting Egbert's dorky ass might just be developing into something he'd take a piece out of the second it's available.

"Dave, have you ever sexted anybody in your life?"

_...Uh._

"Man, what the hell?" A spittake would be fitting, maybe even painfully so, but he hasn't taken a sip of the coke in several long minutes.

"Well, I was reading your texts,-" nothing more than a slight raising of his voice when Dave starts to protest, because _dude_ "-and you sound like a thirteen year old. 'Hey, what time are you gonna be home?' 'dunno' 'Bro wants to know.' 'tell bro to send nudes'. Really, Dave?"

He has no right to look so haughtily pained, the fricker. He's never even had a girlfriend, he's probably never sexted before, either! And besides- Dave isn't admitting to _anything_.

"Shut up. It's a free country; I can be as immature as I want."

John drops his chin to his chest, eyes still on him, and raises his eyebrows like he can't believe Dave's even alive and still this stupid.

"What??"

He sighs and shakes his head, and Dave wrinkles his nose, raising the can of coke to his lips. "If y'ain't gonna contribute anything to the pool of Stri-cool, GTFO."

"Dave," he says patiently, "you are so lame that it physically pains me to be your friend sometimes."

To be fair, John totally deserved the pillow coming for his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh, is this a continuing shortthing i see in the future? yes, i think it is. hmm.


	8. Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> satisfaction; the end result of a long round of love-making. consisting of sweet nothings, a mind-blowing orgasm, and the shared gaze of lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i didn't feel like writing _porn_ porn, so i wrote this instead.
> 
> vaguely NSFW

Dave pulls out, slow and unsure and lazily sated, and he tenses subconsciously, suddenly cold without the familiar filled sensation. The jarring ripples of pleasure that keep hitting him are slowly fading, but there's a break as Dave settles himself next to him, and _oh_ that's _what they mean by 'feeling well fucked'_.

He's sore on the _inside_ , a dull, achy roundness centered around where Dave had been buried in him, and he clenches deliberately just to feel the ache.

 _love_ and _lust_ and _Dave_ ,--

and he's pretty sure that's all he needs.


	9. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S05E08 - Changing Channels.
> 
> What if the shows they starred in were a little less hero-oriented, and a lot more victimizing? What if, instead of solving the crimes and catching the bad guys, they were the ones who had to call the cops and piece shattered ideas of safety back together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for Rape/Non-Con, vaguely graphic depictions of violence, and maybe a little bit of Wincest. who really knows wowie

Dean's coughing blood from the ground where he lays; thick, dark liquid that bubbles over his lips and stains his skin, and Sam wonders when they turned from Hunters to Detectives to Victims.

Or, in this case, an apparent murderer and his victim brother.

He speaks through gritted teeth and unshed tears, and he swears that the second they get out of 'TV Land', he's going to hunt down the Trickster until he's dead in a pool of his own blood.

"I told you not to tell anyone, didn't I?" The words taste like poison, but he spits them because it's what's scripted, it's what he's supposed to say, it's how they'll get out there of there. "This is just what happens to people who don't play by my rules."

Dean can hardly breathe, but he's still got lines to deliver. "You can't get away-" a wet, hacking cough, and Sam recoils when blood spatters on his boots. "-The feds are... _hah_ on their w-way. You're _fucked_."

His brother dies with hardly a fight, courtesy of a gunshot wound to the base of his throat, and he welcomes the bullet the SWAT team puts in his head.

Show's over-- for now.

//

He wakes slowly, mouth tasting of copper and cotton. His head pounds like he's gone ten rounds with an Angel- or maybe a Demon- and when he fights up through the viscous layer of delusion to look around, he's bound to a pole in an empty room, and Dean's nowhere to be found. He blinks a couple times, slow and heavy, to clear his vision, and if seeing doubles wasn't enough to concern him, he pukes the contents of his stomach a second later.

His throat burns, dry and gritty and burning with bile, but he swallows with a cringe and forces down panic. Now's not the time. "Hello?"

His head pulses again, an ache spawned from a single spot on the back of his head, and if he could move, he's sure he'd find a sizable knot.

"Hey, is anyone there? Hello??"

There's a shuffling off to the side of the room, someone startling at the sudden exclamation, and in the second it takes for his head to settle it's throbbing again, the sound is gone, leaving behind devastating silence in it's wake.

Since the panic room, silence has become synonymous with disaster.

He drifts out of awareness for a while, hallucinating- the Trickster, Dean, even Lucifer makes an appearance, and he's pretty sure he's only ratcheting up the rating on whatever movie this is.

He comes to full awareness with a startled shout, and the command he receives in Arabic (at least, he _thinks_ it's Arabic) carries the inflection that Dean always does when he tells Sam to shut the hell up.

The AR-15 waving in his face is the real kicker, though.

A knife is produced after a moment, in the barely-visible hand of one of his captors, and he cringes, but it's only used to cut his shirt off.

He's pretty sure that's a camera they're setting up a couple feet in front of him, which means he's about to be beaten for a ransom video, and as they blindfold him, he sends up a half-defeated prayer to Cas that the video at least gets to Dean, and not some cold bastard who'd be willing to sacrifice one person for 'the greater good'. As many times as it's happened, he really doesn't want to die.

"Say your name for the camera."

A thick accent, better English than he's heard since losing his team. He recognizes the speaker as the Israeli scientist his team was supposed to be rescuing, and takes in the man's anxious shifting and wavering voice in a slightly altered light. He's just as out of place as Sam is.

"Captain Samuel Campbell, 6th Marine Division."

"Date."

He casts his mind back, finds an empty space after they'd infiltrated the compound, and flails blindly for a number. "July 17th, 2009?"

Someone slides a blindfold over his face, and the last glimpse he gets of the room is the Israeli scientist, shifting anxiously as a bag full of metal pipes is passed in front of him.

 _Shit_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm too stoned to bother re-reading this rn


	10. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Not Even a Cold"
> 
> Sam vs Dean
> 
> "I'm okay, really!"
> 
> For the first time in their history (and Lord knows it hasn't been good with those three words), he's telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to write a fic where they get a little reprieve from the constant agony of season 8
> 
> Also Sam angsting over his brother is the most delicious thing ever so

"I need you to be _honest_ with me, Sam," Dean says, and his eyes are on the road, but Sam knows he's far from present. "I can't handle any more lies."

"I know," he breathes. He does, he knows, he _gets it_ , and he knows another lie could very well shatter his brother- but how is he supposed to keep Dean safe when he's busy telling him every time he was ever hurt?

"Do you?" There's a pinched, veiled sort of pain in the question, and Sam has to force himself to meet Dean's gaze from the passenger seat. "Because we've had this same conversation before, Sammy, and I don't remember it doing a damn bit of good."

He doesn't flinch because he doesn't deserve it, but he does let his eyes drop to his lap. Yeah, he remembers that, too. And he thought he was doing the right thing. That just keeps coming back, doesn't it? The road to hell is paved with good intentions, blah, blah, blah. And deals with demons, he supposes. Demon's blood could really grease the wheels, though, and when you have a brother already heading straight there-

He clears his throat. "I thought I was protecting you, Dean," he says finally, and that wasn't at all what was supposed to come out, but Dean quiets for a moment and considers, and he figures _good enough_. "Now, and the times before-" water under the bridge, Sam, keep talking, "-I thought I was helping you. You were going through so _much_ , it was like one little thing would push you over the edge- you have to get that, I wasn't lying to you because I didn't trust you, or anything like that."

He looks skeptical, if only barely, and Sam presses gently on.

"Dean, I swear, it was only ever to protect you. I mean, maybe it wasn't the best way, but..."

"You thought you had a handle on things."

"Yeah."

And for a while even, he _did_ have a handle. But habits are controlling, and who really wants to talk about seeing Satan all over the place, past resident of hell and big brother of the year or not? Dean looks at him again- really _looks_ , not through or past or over or around him, straight _at him_ , and Sam does his best to appear confident.

"Dean, I promise, I'm _fine_. I didn't tell you about the- coughing, the blood, because it's a little concerning, yeah, but you have to-" he shakes his head, mildly incredulous. "My throat isn't even sore, okay? I feel good, feel _great_ \- I don't even have a _cold_ , Dean."

He can see the gears whirring away in his older brother's head, see him taking everything in and processing, checking for every tell he knows and all the ones he doesn't.

Finally, he nods.

"Okay. If that's what you say, then... I believe you. Not even a cold." He bites back a near laugh and shifts in his seat, pressing his forehead to the windowpane.

"But Sammy?"

He turns back, questioning, eyebrow raised. "Mm?"

"Don't give me a reason not to trust you again."


	11. Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> techBon presents: 30 seconds of highschool, ft a couple of homos and a young freud/jung fusion!

"Now," says Rose appraisingly, eyeing the poster of the shaded blond, " _that_ is a compaign I can get behind."

Dave flushes from his seat when he overhears his sister's companion's take on the poster.

"Fuck that, I'd let him get behind _me_ anytime."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do i do this


	12. Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> more 30 second drabble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which john is a responsible working adult who dropped out of university because of undue financial stress and ridiculous emotional trauma (homework is hard okay)
> 
> he now owns a bookstore and rose (highschool student who seems to be majoring in psychoanalysis) comes in every goddamn day to go through his new books and harass him as he does puzzles
> 
> he's so chills yo he doesn't even twitch when she slams nine textbooks down and demands that he check her out for them
> 
> "would you like a bag for those."
> 
> and after this little gem passes she introduces him to her older half-brother who may or may not be a loser named dave an den dey frick
> 
> okay dinner comes first ofc

The blonde leans over the counter, resting her chest right up on the ledge behind where her forearms lay, and you raise an eyebrow at her over your book of sudoku puzzles.

"I think you're avoiding something," she says suddenly, eyes narrowing.

You snort. "Yeah. I'm avoiding work."

She shakes hair out of her face and blows out, seeming smugly satisfied. "No. You're displacing your frustration at a fruitless part of your life into a puzzle."

You raise your book, interest piqued. "These puzzles?"

She nods. "It's a common defence mechanism. Maybe you're failing in school-"

You protest that you're not in school, and she waves you off.

"Or maybe you're sexually frustrated, or any multitude of problems. But you're focusing your energy in the wrong place."

Your stock girl, Roxy, snickers, and you shoot a glare in her direction. "You can't dick a book into submission, Egbuddy."


	13. Homestuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, beneath my lungs, I feel your thumbs press into my skin again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [before](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vqc2uOunPdA)
> 
> [during](https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=tujOgnbnfc4)

You kissed him, once. Loved the quirk of his mouth without shame, stroked the flat of a palm down the long lines of his neck and-

he slept with everyone he wasn't supposed to, everyone who didn't matter, and it hurt like he reached into your chest (with his dick?) and squeezed your heart until it started to explode.

You never learned to move on when you were supposed to, but you think that's okay. Somebody has to be responsible for remembering when things were good. You play with cards and look up bass riffs on youtube and learn to knit and sometimes, when you're by yourself, you write long-winded things that could be called raps.

You feel like you're the only one hanging on, and you feel stupid and achy and happy for something you lost a long time ago.

She lost her muchness just like her favorite movie, and you can see through the wisp that took her place, see straight through her back when she kisses her lovers and through her thighs when she dances and when her hair is caught by the breeze you can see the clouds behind her head and he's beautiful like the world is caught up inside her, twisted and pulling uselessly at the links of the net, but

the afterimage sticks sharp and painful in your chest when you breathe, like a stinging nettle in your hair, and you choke down acrid smoke because it feels like air.

You never got a job. You stayed home and made a place for them to come back to- you kept their rooms, their little homes, neat and tidy, scattered where they were supposed to be, and you closed the doors to keep the smell of your friends except now it just hurts.

When you walk by doors that haven't been opened in years (and probably won't be for years) and repaint because you can't let things fall down in their absence-

You learned to keep your hands busy so your heart doesn't seize again, so you hang the clothes out to dry once a week when you're stuck in your worn pajamas again and you let your scars air out in the weak sunlight because sometimes they collect more hurt than you ever intended to.

She boxed herself up in sterile facilities and hated dogs, and that wasn't her so much that you wondered if maybe who you'd been had gotten lost in the chaos of the end and there was simply no way to get it all back.

You skin crawls and tingles when you watch tv so you shut it off and sit on the roof until the wind takes you back, filling your lungs the way it used to, like life support-

you're on life support all on your own, and if someone's supposed to be there holding your hand, you hope they get there soon, before you get unplugged, because energy bills are rising and you can't afford it-

and when the world ends, you know, sometimes it's just not worth hanging on for. Especially on life support.

One day you'll get to say welcome home. But you don't think you'll be there to enjoy it.


	14. Supernatural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Only the good die young- but coming back is reserved for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's like 0 spn fics in this mess i gotta fix that

"Don't tell me you don't remember me," the devil says, eyes a-glow in the (winter) night.

The hunter tightens his grip on the (like purgatory) weapon, always taut, always feral (wild animals), always (hunter) ready.

"From what they say down there and from reading The Winchester Gospels, I figure I was pretty damn important."

"Demons read?"

Teeth flash and the vicious (amused) pearl matches it's eyes.

"Deeeaaaaan. You're disappointing me."

The circle is (he's protected) unbroken, stark and naked and harsh in the chilled (frosted) gravel beneath their feet.

"I don't associate with demons-"

"Anymore."

"-so I have no clue who the hell you are, but you've got thirty seconds before I unpack the holy water and demon knife."

The vessel's hair stirs in the wind (long, too long, needs to be cut), and for a moment, the hunter is gazing uncomfortably into the face of his brot-

"Sam," it says after a moment (liar). "I don't remember it all yet. But the higher you crawl, the more you get back."

The hunter releases a (father of lies) handful of salt and watches it claw it's skin free of the burn (my brother isn't a demon).

"It drives you crazy- you know who you were but there's a gap- you used to be someone, something, but you can't even pretend you're interested in faking it-"

The hunter (heaven he's in heaven) lashes out with a steel toed boot, and the (shinbone, it falls to it's knees) crack foreshadows the cries that rend the night air, ripped velvet leaking blood against the stars and staining the moon (up there) with it's filth.

The hunter stands with a heaving chest and spits next to it's (shredded) face, boots inches from a bloody (torn) cheek.

"I'd rather kill you than help you," and blood trickles into the dust as a knife reflects cold moonlight. "You know what we do, Sammy."

He doesn't scream when his borrowed (stolen) heart explodes.


	15. Homosuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no really there's homos in here and they do some sexy things
> 
> realistically awkward first time blow jobs, complete with a victim of sexual abuse and a chubby prepubescent dave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still have to edit, but it's a lot easier to do on the computer vs a phone, you feel me?
> 
>  **john uses stupid harlequin novel words for sexy words because all his sex-ed came from sneaking his mama's romance books.** not gonna lie, that's how i talked right up until like grade 10 because all i knew was those shitty erotic novels and i honestly had no idea what a boner was
> 
> (i feel like i need to explain everything contained herein) there's a lot of thinking and rambling because, while it's not how i'm comfortable writing, that's about how i think some poor gay kid would behave giving his first BJ. plus it's how i thought so shrug

You press a slow kiss to his hip, and it's less boney (like yours) and more rounded, kind of squishy (like fat tends to be, duh), and not a turn off, god, no,- you just weren't expecting it, somehow. You knew he weighed more than you (TG: dude you can call me fat its not like im offended TG: im fat youre shota its a fact), but you were still expecting sharp angles and corners to cut yourself on. He looks a little anxious as you hesitate over his thighs (like an idiot- you're not supposed to _think_ during- intimacy- _stuff_!) and you jolt up with a hasty grin, hands flying to his knees to cull any thought of moving. "Sorry- I got distracted- I was thinking, which, I guess, is pretty awful, haha, I just do that sometimes and it kind of makes me zone out- I _swear_ it's nothing bad, okay, it's not like-"

He cuts you off with a kiss, hand on your shoulder with laughter rumbling through his chest, and you feel goosebumps prickle your spine at the same time that you melt into him.

He lets you go after a second, and you're flushed and breathless again (you're new at sex, okay!) when he grins.

"Sorry. Can I try- is it okay-?"

"Go for it," and his voice is just as insubstantial as yours, two parts hushed awe and one part shyness, and you tumble headlong into the abyss that appears to make up true actual honest-to-god _adult_ love.

You have to wriggle almost all the way down the bed to be level with his- _him_ , and you have to take a (quick) second to admire him, because as weird as it might be, you think he's really, _really_ attractive- and you don't know if it's bad or not, but it's because of the rolls of fat that kind of have settled around his middle- he's so effortlessly comfortable in his own skin, and it's amazing because you know he gets so much shit for how he looks-

"You're doing that thing again, John," he says, and you flush deep and try to make yourself as comfortable on your forearms as possible.

"Sorry."

"This'd probably be easier if you were on the ground, y'know."

It takes a couple seconds to make the change, and then when you're settled you don't have to try to make yourself level with his member because 'on your knees' is a good position for both god _and_ Dave.

The thought makes you lurch forward with a fierce flush, and Dave's breath hitches over you when you exhale over him for the first time.

You feel kind of dumb. You know he isn't thinking anything of the sort, but you've seen porn before (and still feel guilty about it) and they always make it look so easy, so _casual_ , and here you are on your knees, and you can't find a single casual thing about giving your first blowjob-

You palm him, because you're still a little intimidated by the idea of putting another guy's _thing_ in your mouth, (it makes a funny wave of pleasure go through you, though, and you resolve to stop thinking.)

You lick him after a second, just his- just the top of him, the squishy bit, his head, and it kind of surprises you, because you'd been expecting him to be hard _there_ , too; instead he reminds you of a marshmallow- a warm marshmallow- and you fight the urge to giggle and put your lips over the top of him.

You were also expecting him to make more noise. Dave is really loud when he talks, and he talks a lot, so you'd thought it would carry over, and the guys in that video you watched basically shouted himself hoarse- but, you suppose, you've just started, and you don't actually make any noise on the rare occasion that you touch yourself, so.

You don't think you actually have any idea what you're doing, after all.

He hisses out a breath when you cautiously slide your mouth further around him, and you find that your lips catch and stick really uncomfortably, so you pull off and lick his manhood from bottom to top until he's shiny and spitslick enough for you to slip over. You suck; first like a straw, then more like you're sucking blood out of a cut in your lip (oh my god, that's not sexy at _all_ ), and he makes this gut-wrenching sound in the back of his throat and your hips twitch involuntarily because it's really hot? It makes you harder, and it makes you bolder, and you slide down his length and find out you're really awful at keeping your teeth off of him, jesus.

You try to switch up what you're doing, because you find out after about 2.5 seconds of bobbing that giving a blow job is boring, but you also find that you really like it, because there's no end to the sounds you can tease out of him with the right combination of fingers and lips and tongue.

You also don't like hair. _God_ no. It's _awful_ , and you're going to be picking it out of your _teeth_ , and it's a pain in the ass to shave but an even worse pain in the ass to get stuck between your teeth, so you figure you'll deal afterwards-?

"Go faster," he manages, once, when you're bouncing your head like a ping-pong ball and fighting the urge to gag around him in your throat, and you obey until you make yourself dizzy, and then you suck hard at him as you draw back, and your mouth starts to fill with something the consistency of candy goo (it's good, don't knock it 'till you try it) and a taste that reminds you of blood, and your stomach churns dangerously until he touches your head and sucks in a ragged breath, and then you suck it up (no pun intended) and pretend you have no tastebuds, because by jove, you're going to see this through!

He shudders and squeezes a fistful of hair just this side of painful, and you look up when he mangles a warning, and then his arousal twitches, and you jerk back a little because the idea of getting his seed in your mouth is _not at all _appealing, but your face is a _completely_ different story, and then he tenses up and you close your eyes.__

__The feeling of something hot and sticky on your chin makes you flinch a little, and then there's a little on your lips, up high on your cheekbone, and you feel a few droplets on the bridge of your nose and your eyelids (your _eyelids_ -!), and when he relaxes and is left breathing heavy, you crack an eye and find him looking at you like you've rediscovered the pyramid of Tutankhamen. Or something._ _

__You flush, and when you gather the courage to ask if it was good, he breathes a soft, "Holy _shit_ , John," and pulls you bodily into his arms and kisses you until your manhood is throbbing and ready between your legs._ _

__He presses his forehead to yours instead of kissing you again, and looks seriously at you- this isn't just romance, anymore, this is trust and safety and you fall for him again with an aching member and a deep flush when he lays you back and rocks to his heels._ _

__"Do you want me to...?" He's unsteady when he looks at you, and his eyes drop to your groin, then skitter back up to you, and you have to look away. It's not him, and he knows it, but _god_ is it hard to say no when he looks at you like that._ _

__"Sorry," you say when he seems to understand. You're just- you're not even sure you could handle him touching you, much less whether you'd be able to enjoy it or not, and aside from the fact that you're shy, you're so unsure of yourself that it hurts._ _

__"It's okay," he comforts, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and you can feel his breathing still evening out as you fist yourself in his arms, and when his knuckles brush yours (by mistake) you jerk and climax like an explosion, and it takes a long while to come back down and stop shaking._ _

__"I love you," he says after a moment, and you mumble it back through numb lips and kiss him breathless._ _

__"I love you too."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear sweet jesus i gave myself a conniption trying to get over the embarassment of calling a dick a 'throbbing manhood'
> 
> how do romance authors _do it_ **ugh**
> 
> i think it's just the language, but i feel like this is unbearably shitty
> 
>  
> 
> _  
> **i really need feedback please and thank you**  
> _
> 
>  
> 
> this is part of an AU i'll probably put up later but for now here's this

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know what i just wrote so forgive me please
> 
> if you can't tell, i know nothing about gambling.


End file.
